


The Carpathian Christmas Affair

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Illya disappears while on assignment in Romania, Napoleon goes looking for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Carpathian Christmas Affair

**Author's Note:**

> A Down the Chimney Affair gift for [](http://farad.livejournal.com/profile)[farad](http://farad.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  **Story Prompts:** Soviet Politics, chains, Gypsies  
>  Thanks to ancastar and st_crispins for keeping me honest on the structure, and to msmoat and periwinkle27 for checking that the revisions worked.

Napoleon took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then he counted to ten again. In Russian. And once more in Italian.

None of it helped. He still wanted to grab the colourless, little _apparatchik_ sitting across from him by the scruff of the neck and shake him until he broke, but he knew that wouldn't get him what he wanted. It wouldn't help Illya.

"You're sure you have no idea where Mr. Kuryakin is?"

"As I told you before, Mr. Solo, Comrade Kuryakin has not been in touch with me or our office for several days."

"The last time I talked to him, he told me he was coming back here to report to you." Napoleon worked hard to keep his tone even and light, to prevent his teeth from grinding together in frustration. He almost succeeded.

"I have not seen him." The man looked down and began sorting papers, the universal bureaucratic symbol for "get out of my office." Napoleon took the hint, though not without taking one last shot at getting a straight answer. Illya always did tell him he was too fond of lost causes.

"You'll contact me if Mr. Kuryakin gets in touch with you?"

"I will, Mr. Solo." The little bastard didn't even look up.

"You can leave a message at my hotel if I'm not in."

"Good _day_ , Mr. Solo."

Napoleon stood, shot his cuffs, turned sharply on his heel, and left the office. He couldn't resist slamming the door, ever so slightly, behind him.

He strode through the grey, drab halls of the _Securitate_ building, populated by grey, drab men and women, most of them armed. He shrugged into his top coat as he pushed his way out the final door and onto the streets of Bucharest. Hands in pockets, he quickly walked through the streets, identifying, then losing the tail he'd acquired.

Only when he was absolutely sure he was not being observed did he duck into an alley and pull out his communicator.

"Open Channel D."

"Mr. Solo, is there any word on Mr. Kuryakin?" If he hadn't known what a cold-hearted, calculating man their boss was, Napoleon would almost have thought Waverly sounded concerned.

"No, sir. Mr. Arcos in the _Securitate_ insists he hasn't seen Illya."

"He's lying, of course."

"He must be. I talked to Illya a day or so before he disappeared. He told me then he was on his way to the _Securitate_ headquarters. Even if Arcos hasn't seen him, I'm sure he must know where Illya is."  
"Redouble your efforts, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin is too valuable an agent to lose."

"Yes, sir." Napoleon did not mention how very much more valuable Illya was to him.

"And don't annoy the local officials too much. Romania is one of the few Warsaw Pact countries U.N.C.L.E. can rely on at the moment."

"I'll try."

"You'll do better than try, young man." A faint click was the only indication that Waverly had signed off.

Napoleon stamped his feet against the cold and considered his next move. It had been three days since Illya had disappeared. There'd been no sign of him since, and official channels had either been unable or unwilling to give him any information.

Well, if official channels were no help, there were always the unofficial ones.

Hands in pockets, he began to make his way to the outskirts of the city.

* * *

"I hate Romania." Napoleon sprawled on his back, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, contemplating Illya's coming assignment with a complete and utter loathing both considered and visceral.

"You've never been to Romania." Illya stretched out beside him, head propped on one hand, his naked skin alluring even in the dim light of the bedroom. He was in one of his rational moods, a mood Napoleon was sure Illya used just to annoy him.

"I don't have to go to Romania to know I hate it." Fight rationality with irrationality. If he was lucky it would drive Illya nuts. If he was really lucky, Illya would do something interesting to shut him up.

"It's just another country. Just another assignment." Illya reached out and drew a warm hand down Napoleon's arm. Napoleon shivered in spite of Illya's heat.

"I don't like you working in Warsaw Pact countries."

"I thought you loved Communism." Illya grinned, leaned in, and kissed the side of his jaw.

"I love a Communist." Napoleon turned and lightly met Illya's mouth. "Not quite the same thing."

"From each according to his ability." Illya bit lightly at his lower lip, pulling it with his teeth. "To each according to his need." He touched his tongue to the hollow at the base of Napoleon's throat. "What do you need, Polya?"

"You," he said simply, ignoring, for the moment, his unease at what Waverly had asked of Illya.

"I think that can be arranged."

Napoleon drew in a breath of anticipation as Illya hovered over him. Then Illya covered his body with his own and drove all thought of Romania or U.N.C.L.E. or Thrush completely from his mind.

* * *

The Romani camp was located in a field on the fringes of Bucharest. A loose conglomeration of trailers and tents, trucks and horses, it was the third such camp Napoleon had visited since his appointment with Arcos. He'd been unable to make himself understood at the first, and had been bodily thrown out of the second. He expected nothing better here, but he had to keep trying. He wasn't about to give up on Illya.  
Napoleon parked the battered Trabant, the only car he'd been able to rent at the Bucharest airport, and approached the camp. As he reached the first trailer, he was surrounded by a group of children, babbling in several languages, all incomprehensible to him. Their hands were thrust in the air, thrust towards him, thrust in his pockets. He kept a firm hold on his gun and his wallet, and kept going.

Like the last two camps, this one was made up almost entirely of women and children. The only men he saw were older and white-haired, with lined faces. Their source had known what he was talking about.  
The chattering of the children rose into a shriek, and then they dispersed in all directions like a flock of startled birds as three older men emerged from a tent and headed in his direction, scowls on their tanned faces. Napoleon tried his best to look nonchalant when he noticed the ax handle in one man's hand.

" _Bună ziua. Numele meu e_ Napoleon Solo" he said, exhausting a quarter of his Romanian vocabulary. His efforts only earned him more scowls.

He switched to Roma, using the greeting Illya had taught him the first time they'd run into a Romani tribe. The men's expressions turned, if possible, more hostile, and the ax handle was raised in his direction.  
"Next time, I’ll pay more attention to Illya’s language lessons," Napoleon muttered under his breath, wondering if he should cut and run, or stand his ground, for Illya's sake if not his own.

"You should stick to English," one of the men said, raising a hand and stepping in front of the other two. "Your Romanian is atrocious. And there are only a few of us here who understand Ruska Roma. We speak Boyash."

"You know English." Amazement, surprise and relief flooded through Napoleon's limbs in equal measure.

"Of course," the man said matter-of-factly. "Also as many dialects of Roma as I've come across, and Romanian, German, French, and Russian. It never hurts to know the language of the police arresting you."

"Been arrested often, have you?"

"Often enough, Napoleon Solo." The man's sharp, blue eyes gave nothing way. "There aren't many who like the Roma."

"I've heard."

"Where did you learn Ruska Roma?"

"From a friend. One with some Roma blood in his veins."

"What is the name of your friend?"

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."

The men's behaviour changed immediately on hearing Illya's name. They began to talk swiftly in their own language, and their spokesman's expression turned from scowl to something a bit friendlier.

"Why didn't you say so sooner?" Before he could protest, Napoleon found himself hurried into the tent the men had emerged from. He was ushered to the most comfortable chair in the surprisingly comfortable space, and a cup of tea was placed in his hand.

"My name is Nicu. These men and I are the leaders here. The care of the people of this camp rests in our hands. I assume you are from U.N.C.L.E.?"

"You've heard of U.N.C.L.E.?"

"It was our warning that Mr. Kuryakin was responding to. We sent the message to your Command. Anonymously, of course. We have learned through the centuries not to make ourselves too visible. And we talked to Mr. Kuryakin about what is happening."

"You’ve seen Illya?" Napoleon kept his composure only with difficulty. "Do you know where he is?"

"Mr. Kuryakin visited our camp three days ago. That is the one and only time I have seen him."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"I assume the same thing that happened to our young men. That has been happening to all the young men no one cares about." Nicu frowned and looked to the north. "He has been taken, kidnapped to work for those bastards."

"What bastards are those?"

"We only know what they call themselves. _Negru pasăre_. Black Birds."

"Thrush." Napoleon practically whispered the word. "Damn." That was louder.

"You know of these people?" Nicu looked at him with an expression that was equal parts hope and despair.

"We've run into them once or twice." He put the teacup down on a nearby table and stood, suddenly needing to be moving, to be acting. "And if they're the ones who have your young men and my friend, well, let's just say it's not going to be easy to get them back."

"You can have whatever assistance our camp can offer, Mr. Solo."

"Thank you," Napoleon said with a nod, grateful he had some help on this mission, even if it was only from three old men and a collection of women and children. But then, if Illya had taught him anything, it was that help from the Roma was never to be underestimated. "Now, tell me what else you know about these _Negru pasăre_."  


* * *

Napoleon collapsed onto his pillow and tried to catch his breath. Illya hovered over him, the thin sheen of sweat on his chest the only indication that he’d exerted himself at all.

"Are you feeling better about Romania now?"

"I’m definitely feeling better." Napoleon pushed himself up to give Illya a very thorough kiss, showing him just how much better he felt before letting himself fall back to the pillow. "Not about Romania, though."

"Stubborn American."

"Oblivious Soviet."

"I wouldn't think you'd mind me going to Romania. After all, Ceauşescu was the only Warsaw Pact leader to support the Prague Spring."

"That makes it worse, not better. Ceauşescu is antagonizing Brezhnev, which means one of two things to you. Either the Romanians will have it in for you because you’re Russian. Or the Russians will have it in for you because you’ve been working in Romania."

"There’s a third possibility." Illya lay down beside him, one lazy finger tracing patterns on Napoleon’s skin. "Both the Romanians _and_ the Russians could have it in for me because of this assignment."

"I thought you were trying to make me feel better."

"Didn’t I just make you feel better?" The look Illya aimed at him, equal parts lust and mischief, made Napoleon’s breath catch in his throat.

"You should be declared illegal."

"I am, in all of your Southern states. Didn’t you get the memo?"

"I’ll send out a memo of my own." Napoleon rolled over suddenly, and wrapped both arms around his partner. He held him close, close enough that he could feel the beating of Illya’s heart against his own chest. Close enough that he could feel Illya’s breath puff against his cheek. "Re: Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin’s wilful disregard for his own safety."

"Why not Re: Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin’s devotion to duty and the Command?"

Napoleon didn't answer, he just held his partner tighter still and tucked his head into the crook of Illya's neck. If not for the outside world, he could have stayed here, in this bedroom, in this bed, forever. But, as always, there was the outside world to contend with.

"You know it makes sense for Mr. Waverly to send me on this assignment," Illya said. He paused for a minute, and when Napoleon didn't respond, he continued. "There is no other agent who knows both Romanian and Roma. And no one else who has the trust of the Roma."

"You're Romanian is atrocious," Napoleon said petulantly.

"Yours is nonexistent." Napoleon felt a lick, then a nibble at his ear. "I've been on assignments like this before. I've been on more dangerous assignments before. Why are you so bothered about this one?"

And that was the thing, wasn't it? Illya wasn't wrong. On its face, this assignment seemed a walk in the park: Illya was to investigate the anonymous rumours that had surfaced of young men disappearing from Romani camps in Romania. If there was truth in the rumours, he would call in Napoleon and a larger team. But there _was_ something about this that was different, something beyond involving Illya in the snake pit of Eastern Bloc politics. Something that was niggling Napoleon under his skin until he couldn't think straight.

"I don't know," he tried to shrug it off at first, knowing how it would sound. "I just…have a bad feeling about this one."

To his credit, Illya didn't laugh. "I'll be careful, Napoleon." He stroked Napoleon's cheek and looked at him with an expression that was both serious and concerned.

"I know," Napoleon said with a whisper. "I know."

* * *

At any other time, Napoleon might have paused to enjoy the beauty of these woods, the snow-covered pines, the moonlight glinting off ice crystals. Now, however, all he could do was wince at the sound of the snow crunching under his feet, and wish he'd thought to bring a pair of proper boots with him. At least Nicu had been able to lend him a decent pair of gloves and a hat. With any luck, he wouldn't die of exposure before he found Illya.

Assuming Illya was alive. Assuming Thrush hadn't tortured him. Hadn't…. No. He shook his head slightly, straightened his shoulders, and tried to banish such defeatist thoughts.

He glanced to the right and saw Nicu several trees to his right, ghosting through the dusk-darkened woods. Amazingly, the Rom seemed to make almost no sound as they made their way towards Peleş Castle.

He still couldn't quite believe he was in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, making his way to a Transylvanian castle. Or at least, one very near the border of Transylvania. He hoped the rumours they were following had a whiff of truth in them.

The rumours gusting through Romani encampments throughout the country said the men Thrush had captured were being brought here, to Peleş Castle, just beyond the town of Sinaia. A half day's drive in Napoleon's battered Trabant had brought them to Sinaia: he, Nicu, and Nicu's fellow elders, Marko and Luca.

Then Nicu had found another Romani camp near Sinaia, a camp as bereft of men as Nicu's. A camp rife with more rumours. Rumours that the men had been moved from the castle to a mine deep inside the Carpathians. A mine where they were beginning to sicken.

And there was more. The area around the castle had been full of soldiers since the men had begun disappearing. Romanian soldiers, not Thrush henchmen. And that made Napoleon very nervous indeed. It meant that he had to assume the Romanian authorities were in league with Thrush. It meant that his suspicions about Mr. Arcos at the _Securitate_ looked to be true. It meant he was truly on his own.  
Not quite on his own. He did have Nicu, Marko and Luca, after all. One agent and three old men wasn't much of a force to storm a Thrush stronghold, but he'd done more with less before. And they weren't exactly going to storm the castle. Sneak in was more like it. They were going to have to rely on guile and cunning to succeed. Fortunately, he had plenty of both, and judging by the fact that they'd convinced him to bring them along, he suspected Nicu and his friends had more than their fair share as well.

They were going to need it.

* * *

Napoleon awoke in the early morning, with Illya's place in the bed cold beside him and the sky outside his apartment window still dark.

"Illya." He sat up, blinking several times to clear the sleep from his eyes and hoping his partner hadn't already left.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and then there was Illya, leaning against the doorway, fully dressed and looking every inch the respectable agent.

"You're awake?" Even in the early morning stillness, Illya's voice was quiet.

"After a fashion." He stood and shrugged into his robe. "I thought I was driving you to the airport."

"I called a taxi. No need for both of us to lose sleep."

Napoleon put his arms around Illya, breathing in the scent of his aftershave. "I'd been looking forward to it."

"I'd rather say goodbye here." Napoleon felt Illya's arms tighten around him. "I couldn't do this at the airport." Illya leaned in closer and kissed him. Napoleon opened his mouth beneath Illya's lips, wishing that they had a few more hours, wishing that Illya didn't have to leave at all.

They were interrupted by the door buzzer.

"That will be the taxi." Illya extricated himself from Napoleon's arms. "I shouldn't keep him waiting."

"Go," Napoleon said, when he really wanted Illya to stay. "Just remember you're supposed to be careful. I don't want to have to come and rescue you."

"I'll try to avoid the humiliation."

"You'd better." Napoleon took hold of his hand. "I'd never let you live it down."

"Why do I love you?" Illya asked, even as he squeezed Napoleon's hand and looked at him with obvious affection.

"Because you have wonderful taste."

"Or because I need my head examined." Illya smiled. "Take care, Napoleon."

"That's my line." He leaned forward and gave Illya one final kiss, a barely felt caress that nonetheless promised much. "Remember, you have to be back by Christmas. Mark's promised to cook a goose, and April is threatening to bake a pie."

"April's baking could eliminate Thrush forever. But I don't want to miss Mark's goose. I should be back in a week."

"I'll see you then."

Illya left the room with one last backward glance. Napoleon closed his eyes and listened to Illya's footsteps as he walked down the hall, listened to the rustle of fabric as Illya shrugged into his coat, listened to the soft snick of the door closing.

He stood there for several long minutes, before heading to the shower. He knew he wouldn't be getting back to sleep. He might as well get a start on the day.

* * *

Napoleon had expected the castle to be something out of Dracula, all medieval keeps and moats, with bats flying out of the turrets. Instead, Peleş Castle was more of a glorified hunting lodge, a 19th century fantasia of alpine architecture nestled in the base of the mountains. If it hadn't been crawling with Thrush, it would have been a pretty place to spend Christmas. But it _was_ crawling with Thrush, and was therefore just slightly ahead of a pit of vipers as a place that Napoleon wanted to be.

Their luck held as they approached the castle. No guards saw them, and they managed to make their way into the inner courtyard without raising any alarms. If they made it out alive, Napoleon thought he might just send whoever was in charge a thank you note for the lax security.

They found a deserted alcove off the courtyard and huddled there to make plans.

"We need to search quickly." Napoleon said, far too aware of how little time they had before dawn came and they were in danger of discovery.

"We should split up." Nicu spoke in what Napoleon assumed was Boyash to Marko and Luca, who nodded and moved silently across the courtyard. "They'll take the upper floors. We'll take the main floor and the cellars."

"Cellars first, I think. Illya always seems to get locked up in cellars."

They found a stone staircase leading down to the cellars easily enough, and it was there they found their first clue that Illya might have been in the castle. In a wine cellar full of dust-covered bottles that Napoleon just bet were of fine old vintages that would have tempted even Waverly's palate, was a length of chain. The chain's middle was bolted to the wall, and at either end there was a manacle.

The area around the chain was empty, save for an ancient wooden bench and a ratty blanket that looked to Napoleon as if it might be infested with fleas or worse.

"If Illya was going to get captured, this is the sort of place they'd toss him."

"Then he is not lucky, your friend?" Nicu asked with a raised eyebrow that more than reminded him of his partner.

"You might say that." Napoleon was scanning the cellar, looking for some sign it really had been Illya locked up here. Some idea of where they might have taken him. Before they could find anything, there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. Heart pounding, Napoleon grabbed Nicu and pulled him behind a rack of especially old wine just before the door flew open.

He couldn't see much from where he was hidden, but he could hear the men rummaging through the cellar. One of them was grabbing bottles seemingly at random and loading up his companion's arms. And all the time they were talking. In Romanian.

Beside him, Napoleon could see Nicu strain to hear the men over the clatter of bottles. And then they said "Kuryakin" and Napoleon was straining too, trying to understand a language where his vocabulary was twenty words at best.

He waited as patiently as he could while the men finished and left. And then, when it was clear their visitors weren't coming back he dragged Nicu out into the main part of the room.

"Did they say where Illya is?" Napoleon had no patience left.

"They said he was a troublemaker."

"But did they say where he is?" Only his deference to Nicu's age prevented Napoleon from shaking the Rom until he answered the question.

"They said." Nicu looked at him steadily. "But you're not going to like it."

* * *

Five in the morning. He couldn't believe his communicator was going off at five in the morning. He flailed an arm toward his night table and managed to snag the damn thing more through instinct than conscious thought.  
"Solo."

"Did I wake you?"

He wasn't quite sure how Illya could sound smug through the miniature speakers of the communicator, but he did.

"You know very well you woke me." He struggled to a sitting position, a smile on his face in spite of the rudeness of his awakening. "How is Romania?"

"Cold and dreary." He could imagine the look of displeasure on Illya's face.

"And your assignment?"

"Unproductive. I've talked to the people in two Romani camps so far. Their men have disappeared, but no one knows precisely what happened to them. Or at least, they're not willing to tell me. Not yet."

"Thrush?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. The Roma are not well loved in this country. It could be that Ceauşescu's regime has started its own pogrom."

"Are there signs of that?"

"Let's just say that I don't trust my contact at the _Securitate_."

"Is that going to be a problem?" Napoleon felt himself come fully alert, conscious this could be the threat against Illya he'd feared from the start.

"It's probably nothing." In his mind's eye, Napoleon could see Illya shrug his shoulders. "Mr. Arcos is less than forthcoming, but I would expect that of a bureaucrat. Especially one who works in the Romanian security services."

"Should I have Waverly send him an official reprimand?" Member countries of the Command were supposed to put themselves at the service of its agents. It seldom worked quite that easily, but sometimes it paid to have the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America frighten a recalcitrant official or two.

"I'm sure there's no need. I'm seeing Arcos this evening, after I visit one more Roma camp. I'm sure I'm up to impressing upon him how important his cooperation is."

"I'm sure you are." Napoleon smiled. He always enjoyed seeing Illya intimidate someone who thoroughly needed intimidating. "Take care of yourself."

"Don't I always?"

"Not nearly enough."

"Good night, Napoleon."

"That would be good morning, thanks to you."

"Good morning, then," Illya said, and signed off.

Napoleon sat on the edge of his bed, and dragged a hand across his face. Five in the morning. His alarm wasn't set to go off for another two hours, but he knew he wouldn't sleep now.

He stood and headed for the shower, wishing as he did that he could have said more to Illya. Told him how much he missed him, even if it had only been twenty-four hours since he'd left the apartment. But on a secure U.N.C.L.E. channel that the Communications section could be listening in on at any time? That wasn't going to happen.

With luck, the bad feeling that Napoleon continued to have about this assignment would turn out to be nothing. Illya would solve the mystery, find the missing Rom, and return home to a hero's welcome and great acclaim. Failing that, he'd come home whole, and in time for Christmas dinner.

Napoleon turned on the water, threw back his head and let the shower finish the job of waking him up.

* * *

The higher they got in the mountains, the deeper the snow drifts became.

As Napoleon pushed through the snow, ever more thankful he'd managed to steal a pair of good boots at the castle, he thought again about what Nicu had overheard in the wine cellar. And he felt his anger, and his fear, burn through him, eliminating the cold that surrounded him.

A uranium mine.

That's what all this what about: a damned uranium mine. One that depended on slave labour. Rom slave labour.

If Napoleon was sure of anything, it was that Thrush couldn't be allowed possession of uranium. Uranium could become plutonium, and plutonium could become a nuclear weapon. And if Thrush got hold of nukes, it would be the end of the world Napoleon had fought for all these years.

He also wasn't going to let Thrush use the Roma as disposable people. Uranium mining was perilous at the best of times, and Napoleon would bet his next pay check that Thrush wasn't concerned about the safety of their miners. If they didn't rescue Nicu's people, the ones who didn't die of radiation poisoning would no doubt be buried in collapsed tunnels.

He struggled as he hit a particularly deep patch of show, forcing his way through thigh-high drifts while holding a purloined rifle above his head.

The weapon was one of many Marko and Luca had liberated from Peleş Castle. They'd taken as many handguns and rifles as they could carry, with ammunition to match. They'd need every gun, every bullet, if they were going to free the Rom slaves from Thrush.

If they were going to free Illya.

* * *

It was two days after Illya's early morning call when Napoleon's communicator beeped in his pocket.

He didn't think anything of it at first. He thought it might be Mark, abusing U.N.C.L.E. communications to confirm their Christmas dinner. Or Illya, abusing the communication network further to wind Napoleon up about how well, or how badly, his assignment was going.

"Solo."

What he didn't expect was to hear the voice of Alexander Waverly.

"Mr. Solo."

"Sir?"

"You haven't heard from Mr. Kuryakin, have you?"

"Not since two days ago. Is there anything wrong?"

"Officially, no."

"Officially?" Napoleon didn't like the sound of this.

"Mr. Kuryakin's contact in the Romanian _Securitate_ has assured us that there's nothing wrong."

"That would be Mr. Arcos?"

"Yes. Mr. Kuryakin mentioned him to you?"

"Illya told me he didn't entirely trust the man."

"Mr. Kuryakin is a good judge of character. I don't trust Mr. Arcos either. Mr. Kuryakin has not been in contact for over twenty-four hours, though I told him to check in every twelve. When I contacted the Securitate, Mr. Arcos assured me Mr. Kuryakin was fine, and he'd just forgotten to call in."

"He's lying." Napoleon heard the ice in his own voice. _This_ was what he'd been fearing, why he hadn't wanted Illya on this assignment.

"Of course he is. Mr. Kuryakin might be guilty of many infractions of Command regulations, but he wouldn't just forget to call in. I want you on a plane to Bucharest as soon as possible to investigate."

"Yes, sir." Not that he needed Waverly's orders for this assignment. Even without them, he would have been on a plane to Romania as soon as he could have managed it.

"Find Mr. Kuryakin. Find the missing gypsies. And find out what Romania has to hide. Without offending anyone too much, if you can manage it."

"I'll try, sir," Napoleon said, though he'd be damned if he'd avoid offending even Ceauşescu himself if it meant finding Illya.

"You do that, Mr. Solo. There's an U.N.C.L.E. jet waiting for you at La Guardia. It's scheduled to take off as soon as you make it to the tarmac."

Napoleon was moving before Waverly had severed the connection, calculating how long it would take him to pack the necessary equipment, how long to get to the airport.

Because if Waverly was calling him for a rescue mission, there wasn't a moment to lose.

* * *

Getting into the mine was more difficult than breaking into the castle. They had to avoid numerous patrols of both Thrush and Romanian forces, and had nearly tripped more than one booby trap as they'd carefully worked their way through trees and snow towards the mine. But as dawn was beginning to break, they made it.

There was a scattering of rough wooden buildings all around the mine head. One of them seemed to be an abandoned storeroom, so Napoleon waved his motley force inside. There, they caught their breath, got as warm as they could in an unheated shack, and discussed how to proceed.

"We need to find our men," Nicu said, his compassion for his people clear on his face.

"But not right now," Napoleon cautioned. "Not with the sun coming up. We're playing long odds to begin with. If we act in daylight, we'll stretch those odds to the breaking point."

"Are you not a gambling man?" Nicu seemed affronted, as if Napoleon had called into question his personal courage by suggesting they not attack immediately.

"I only gamble when I know I can finesse the game in my favour. Right now, everything is stacked against us. But if we wait until dusk..."

Nicu huffed, but relayed Napoleon's comments to Marko and Luca. And in the end they all agreed to wait until dark to play their endgame.

They stayed in the storeroom hidden behind a stack of dust-covered timbers, taking turns keeping watch as the others slept.

Napoleon took the watch more often that he should have. Now that he was so close to rescuing Illya, he knew sleep would not come easily to him. So he was the one crouched, his back to the wall, the rifle resting lightly on his thighs, when the light began to fade from the one window in the shack. He was the one who shook the others awake.

"It's time," he told Nicu. Nicu stood, and spoke rapidly to his comrades.

"It is best if we split up again," Nicu said, after an exchange with Marko and Luca.

"I agree," said Napoleon. "We'll cover more ground."

"Exactly." As he'd done throughout this mission, Nicu showed an easy grasp of tactics. Napoleon thought Nicu would give Alexander Waverly himself a run for his money in the leadership stakes.

He and Nicu left the storeroom first. They made their way through the camp, checking each building they came to for signs of the Roma, and avoiding Thrush and Romanian soldiers along the way.

They found nothing in the first three buildings. But at the fourth, their luck changed.

It was a large barn-like building, more rough-hewn than the others, and with only two slitted, barred windows at least ten feet from the ground. Napoleon gestured quickly to Nicu, who then climbed onto his shoulders and looked in at one window.

Napoleon couldn't see anything, but he heard Nicu begin whispering in Boyash. And then he heard Illya's name. Suddenly, he wasn't content to be a human stepladder. He wanted nothing more than to throw Nicu off his shoulders and climb up to the window himself. He wanted to yell at the men inside, to ask if they'd seen Illya, if they knew where he was. But he knew that his job at the moment was to be patient, so he stayed where he was, as still as he could manage.

After what seemed an eternity, Nicu jumped down, surprisingly nimble for a man in his seventies. Before Napoleon could frame his first question, Nicu was already talking.

"There is someone who wants to talk to you."

"Illya?"

Nicu didn't answer, just braced himself and let Napoleon scramble onto his shoulders.

"Illya," he called as loudly as he dared. He strained to see into the small window, the dim light not letting him see more than a huddle of figures gathered beneath the window. But then he saw a flash of blond.

"Napoleon. It's about time you got here." Napoleon had never been so glad to hear a bad-tempered Illya Kuryakin.

"That's what I love about you, Illya," Napoleon said with a laugh. "You're always gracious."

"I'd like to see how gracious you'd be after you'd been stuck down a mine for a five days."

"Point taken." He tried to see further into the barracks. "How many of you are there?"

"Close to a hundred."

"And how many can fight?"

"Most of them." Illya's voice turned hard and unforgiving. "There have been some deaths, from radiation and from accidents, but most of the men have not been here long enough to become seriously ill. They're ready to fight."

"Good." Napoleon unslung the rifle from his back. "Catch." He tossed down the rifle, ammunition, and all the extra handguns he'd stuffed in his pockets, then the weapons Nicu passed up to him. Illya caught everything, and distributed the guns to the eager men who surrounded him. "We'll take out the guards at the front. You be ready to cover us when the door opens."

"We'll be ready."

"Give us ten minutes." With a wave, he jumped off Nicu's back. Then they set out to find Marko and Luca. Napoleon concentrated on the job at hand, kept his mind focused on getting Illya and the others out of their prison. Time enough later to worry about his partner, to wonder if he'd been exposed to too much radiation. To consider if the breakout they were about to attempt was nothing more than a suicide mission.

He'd prepare as best he could, then trust to luck. Just like always.

* * *

In the end they were nearly done in by an old friend. Or rather, an old enemy.

The plan started off well enough. Marko and Luca had found another weapons stash, allowing them to arm even more of the Roma. Then they moved quietly to the front of the barracks, and waited for their moment. It didn't take long. One of the guards became distracted by a loose bootlace. The other seemed bored by what he clearly considered a mind-numbingly tedious assignment. A signal from Napoleon, and they had both men captured and knocked out. Then it was only a matter of stealing the guards' keys and unlocking the barracks.

The Roma came boiling out of the barracks clutching their new weapons, their faces marked by a quiet and steadfast resolve that made Napoleon confident that their thrown-together strategy would work.

As the Roma surged around him, Napoleon began looking for Illya. In the sea of dark hair, it only took a few moments to find Illya's cap of blond. There wasn't time for a lengthy reunion, only a quick backslap and a shared smile. But it was enough.

The first step was done. Next, they had to get away.

Nicu and Napoleon led their merry band towards the trucks they'd seen on their way into the mining camp. Napoleon was depending on speed now. Get everyone to the trucks and away before Thrush understood what was happening and could mount an attack. And it almost worked.

They were perhaps a hundred yards from the trucks, and had encountered only minimal resistance when it all went wrong.

Instead of a few straggling soldiers, they were suddenly confronted by a wall of armed Thrush henchmen between their group and their escape route.

"Great," Napoleon said, even as he aimed his U.N.C.L.E. Special in the direction of one particularly nasty Thrush thug. Beside him, Illya was silent as he steadied his own stolen weapon. Sparing a glance at Nicu and his people, he saw no wavering, no lack of resolve, only determination to defeat the men who had made slaves of them.

And then they heard a voice. A very recognizable voice.

"Well done, Mr. Solo. I didn't think anyone could derail my plans at this late date, but you nearly managed it."

"Is that who I think it is?" Napoleon whispered. Illya only frowned in response and put his finger on his weapon's trigger.

And then, Victor Marton himself appeared.

"Now, however, I think it's time to put an end to this little rebellion. Don't you?" Marton's eyes flicked to the man standing beside him, who gave a nod of assent. As one, the Thrush raised their rifles.

"I don't think much of that idea." Napoleon kept his voice easy and light. "Do you, Illya?"

"I don't like it at all."

"Unfortunately for you, I don't believe there's much either of you can do about it." Marton's Paris boulevardier's smile was at distinct odds with the coldness of his eyes.

"I can," said a new voice. Nicu's voice. Then there were bullets flying, and Marton went down, and Napoleon could only aim and fire and aim again, amazed at how firmly the Roma held their position, refusing to back down until it was all over.

Until the few Thrush left standing had broken and run, and the Roma had won.

Napoleon could only stare in amazement as their allies, dressed in dust-stained rags and carrying stolen weapons, looked after their wounded friends and put the remaining Thrush under guard. Nicu, whose voice had broken the Thrush's resolve, was directing everything, including the bandaging of Marton's wounded arm.

"Imagine what we could do with just ten Roma," Napoleon said, half to himself.

"They'd never take orders," Illya said.

"And that would be different from you how?" Napoleon turned to his partner with a grin made up of both amusement and relief.

"You should talk." Illya's words were dry, but he was smiling too.

It was nearing midnight, and the light of the full moon was sparkling on the snow. From where they stood they could look away from the ugliness of the mining camp, away from the place where the snow was stained with blood, and the dead and wounded lay on the ground, and towards the pristine forest and the mountains looming black and magnificent on the horizon. In spite of the cold, in spite of the brutality of what had just happened, Napoleon thought it was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen.

"Do you still hate Romania?" Illya asked.

"Not when it looks like this," Napoleon said. He took one last look at the countryside, then turned to Illya. "Not when I've got you beside me."

"Careful, Napoleon. Your romanticism is showing."

Napoleon elbowed Illya in the ribs. Not what he really wanted to do to Illya, but the one thing he could do here, on the field of battle, surrounded by men they'd fought beside. When they reached a more private place he would allow himself more.

"It's Christmas in two days," Napoleon said.

"It's going to take us at least that to clean up here. I don't think we're going to make it home in time for Mark's goose."

"That's too bad. Though missing April's pie makes the loss of the goose more palatable." Napoleon felt an entirely crafty grin taking over his expression. "Besides, I have a better idea."

"Is it devious and decadent?"

"Quite possibly."

"Then I approve."

"You don't even know what it is yet."

"Continue," Illya said with a wave.

"I suggest that we head to Paris after we're done here. I know of a nice little hotel; very private, very decadent. We'll tell Waverly you need to recuperate in comfort before you take a flight home. If we play our cards right, he'll foot the bill for our entire stay."

"But I don't need to recuperate."

"I thought you wanted me to be devious?"

"Oh."

"For an intelligent man, Illya, you can be remarkably dense."

"For an honourable man, you can be remarkably Machiavellian."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You're welcome."

They began to trudge over to where Nicu held a gun on the wounded Marton. They were perhaps half way there when Napoleon was struck by something.

"I just realized I hadn't done it yet."

"Done what yet?" Illya looked at him suspiciously.

"Said I told you so."

"And what did you tell me?"

"That I had a bad feeling about this assignment."

"Did you? I'd forgotten." Illya deliberately avoided his gaze and stared at the distant tree line, though Napoleon saw the telltale twitch in the corner of his mouth that usually signified he was suppressing a smirk.

"You told me you'd be careful."

"I was careful." Illya used his best exasperated voice. The one he used when he thought Napoleon was being especially dense.

"Was that before or after you were thrown into a dungeon?"

"It was a wine cellar."

"You admit you were thrown into it, then."

"I admit nothing."

"Taking the Fifth is a definite sign of guilt."

Their squabbling continued as they reached Nicu and Marton, and Napoleon wouldn't have had it any other way. It was how they assured each other they were all right. It was their secret language, its true meaning hidden from all outsiders. It meant Illya was safe, and the good guys had won, and all was right with the world.

It was going to be a good Christmas, after all.


End file.
